Aftermath
by Dogsthorne
Summary: Nika has a vineyard, and 47 moves on. Or at least he would, if only he would stop visiting. Written in vignettes. Movie-verse.
1. It's not the journey, it's the

Completely based on the movie. Never played the game. Never will. (I'm just not a games sort of girl). Warnings of erm... very rusty writing skillz. And self-indulgence, as only fanfic can provide.

Feedback is always nice!!

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1.

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Nika follows him.

He has not written anything – god forbid that he shows _personal_ touch, a part of her snipes unkindly – but in the envelope there are train and bus timetables, and there are railway maps. There is a schedule of sunlight and sunset hours; there is some money. There is a brochure featuring a charmingly-named rural town, located far from any major city, from watchful eyes. And there is a deed.

Her deed.

He has not written anything, but Nika follows. Follows one of the many routes to get there, offered in the plethora of precisely dated tickets. Follows the crowds when she boards trains, when they spill out of buses and rush into lines for the next. Follows her own journey in a map with a finger shaking from the rumbling of the train, marvelling at the distance she's covering.

Nika follows a man who had once thought to kill her, and does not question – mostly because she is still too stunned not to believe.

It is only when she sets foot in the – _her_ – vineyard and the strange old couple waiting anxiously in the veranda starts hailing her as _mistress_, starts looking at her as if _she_ was the one to give orders, that Nika starts to believe this is happening. Starts to believe the incredulous truth that something as precious as freedom could be hers. Could actually, truly - be hers.

Later that night, Nika wonders if he is still alive, and if he is coming.


	2. How far we go for

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2.

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He never means to visit. Not the first time, nor the second, nor third --

He never means to see her. That wouldn't be professional. That wouldn't be safe.

It's just that... sometimes...

He'd wake up. In a dingy motel room, in a tasteful hotel suite, in a borrowed car; it doesn't matter. He'd wake up, and it's always the same: a flashback, pulse-quick – blue shadows, pale men, a needle stained with ink and blood. There would be the faint taste of copper in his mouth, as if he'd just dodged a bullet.

And he would go.

If there was a job, he'd finish it first of course – he has long known, without bitterness, that he is nothing if professional – nothing _but_ his profession. And yet – he would always go. Sometimes still with the white noise of sleep buzzing in his head and memory-fragments flashing every time he blinked, dangerously disorientating; sometimes walking straight out of the motel/hotel/current hideout into his car, the urge to _go go go_ as blind as instinct. Going as if there was still an unfinished job somewhere in the rural depths of Russia; going as if he was no longer hired gun but a another tool, more passive: tracking device. Homing in.

It is _not_ professional.

Nika doesn't know, of course. Doesn't know the flights he takes at the most inhuman hours, doesn't know how he spends at least 48 hours before visiting on brutally methodical self-surveillance, weaving and double-backing and creating distractions till he's absolutely affirmative that no one is tracking him. She has never known how much she costs him.

The first few months, she didn't even know he came.

It is only the sixth time, when he's standing over her sleeping form in the quiet hush of her bedroom, when he's marvelling how unimaginably easy it would be for someone to snap her neck, that he can't stop himself anymore. The man named 47 reaches down, and touches the cheek of the sleeping woman. Just grazes the inked skin lightly, with the side of his gloved thumb.

The woman opens her eyes. Her eyes are still dark with eyeliner, and 47 stares back.

Then:

"You fucker," Nika whispers, and smiles.

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Feedback is appreciated. Thanks for any feedback!


	3. To sleep, perchance to

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3.

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(this is how she wakes up: from a dream of sunlit fields, from a dream of silhouettes chasing her in rough male laughter and rough male voices that promise no harm, but still she runs because all she hears is the old heart-drumming of terror thundering, thundering, thundering beneath – )

This is how Nika wakes up: in the pre-dawn silence of her bedroom, cold grey-blue light misting through the open window and etching the shadow of a killer over her sheets, etching the hard line of his silhouette over her as he touches her cheek.

(this is how she gets up: with her head still spinning for adrenaline and leftover streaks of lime-bright fear and black-spotted disorientation, but even through her daze, there is something squeezing and splitting her breathless inside, like the cruelty of hope that whispers _finally finally_ _you_ _fucker i've been waiting for you_ –)

This is how Nika gets up: _you fucker_, she whispers, and stares at him for a long moment because he looks the same as ever, with his shorn head and blood-red tie and calm dark eyes, as if he never left; her feet flinch a little when they hit the cold floor, when she walks right past him to the balcony.

(this is how she remembers who and where she is: the dream, her dream, a dream of a whore who wanted a vineyard, a sunlit field where no one needed to run or hide, and the way he had looked at her when he listened, the way he has always looked at her – drinking her in and dismissing her at the same time, like she eclipsed his world while meaning nothing at all – )

This is how Nika remembers who and where she is: in the breaking amber of the horizon, with the chill of morning air shivering over her bare shoulders, her bare back, with her vineyard ripening in tangled rows before her… and then the dizzying shock of waking hardens into reality and sudden as a blow, she wakes up.

Nika finally, _really _wakes up.

He has joined her on the balcony.

"Five goddamn months," Nika says, voice still rough from sleep, "and not even a hug?"

And she _really _is pissed off at him, because what arrogant prick lets someone suffer for _five fucking months_ of worry and guilt and wondering whether he's _even fucking alive_, but somehow she is smiling as she say this. The dawn is breaking in front of them, cutting a golden line across his shoulders, and she has forgotten how much she missed him.

She has_ missed_ him.

"Nika," the arrogant bastard says, and it is surreal how familiar he sounds, so smooth and low. "Nika," he starts again, and then Nika is doing it before she even realizes. Touching him before she even realizes, just to make sure he really is there.

Under her palm, the white shirt is crisply cool. He is warm and solid beneath.

"Forty-seven," Nika says, wonderingly, and sound of the number transforming into a name feels alien under her tongue. For the briefest moment, she thinks she sees him closing his eyes.

Then 47 is pulling her hand away, and giving her that _look_ as if she should really know better.

"_Nika_," 47 continues, smooth and annoyed. He is already moving off the balcony. "Go back to bed. I have a plane to catch."

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A little departure from the previous style. Thanks for any feedback!


	4. To be, or

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4.

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Letting Nika know that he visits was a very bad idea.

Continuing to visit is _definitely_ a very bad idea.

47 reminds himself of the men he used to study in his training days. Of the men he is paid to eliminate in his current days.

Relationships, relationships, relationships. Everywhere, the same weakness.

Making these visits a habit will be fatal to him. 47 has seen enough in his profession, has learnt enough in his studies, to know that this is inevitable. With a relationship comes familiarity. With familiarity comes attachment. And with attachment comes mistakes.

That is why he keeps no attachment to anything, has been _trained _not to, because that is the root of all mistakes. This is why he doesn't even keep the same weapon for more than six months, because even an attachment to a weapon can be dangerous when you start to depend on its particular range or quirks, when in the most stupid and human move of all, you give it irrational preference by giving it a name.

Nika has more than her name – she has _his._

In his life, 47 knows mistakes only need to happen once. This is why he is a perfectionist at heart. This is why he is still alive.

Nika is a very_, very_ big mistake.

He calculates just how big a mistake she is on one particularly long and tedious stake-out. Methodically measures the probability of any setbacks, had he left her, against the deadweight risk of bringing her along. Calibrates whether it would have been better – whether it would _still _be better – to just shoot her.

The answer is predictable and leaves him feeling restless, a particularly dangerous trait when the success of the job depends on a split-second passing of the target in a distant window. Mechanically, he adds this distraction under the mental list against Nika's continued existence. It is hard to protect someone when one of her biggest threats is yourself, but 47 _is_ trying.

He is trying, and this is why Nika is still alive, even though he has no rational reason for it.

He is trying, and this is why he still visits, even though every minute grinds against his training.

Nika is a distraction and a mistake, a stereotype and an enigma, and 47 can't quite let her die yet. Can't quite leave her yet.

He will though, one day. It is a small comfort.

In the meantime, he has a target to eliminate and a vocation to fulfil. 47 realigns the sights on his Remington and refocuses on the window. The bush frost is melting from his body heat, seeping wet fingers into his clothes, but 47 is patient. He knows how to wait before the kill.

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Feedback is always encouraging. But you already knew that, didn't you, you terrible lurker you. (thanks to those who do review!)


	5. don't want to kill me, & u don't want to

A rushed job, and it shows. This was written for LlamaCatastrophe, to maintain his/her faith in updates even for long-abandoned fics. More likely, it's probably a lesson in why some fics are better left dead. I seem to have completely lost the pace and characters of this fic and canon entirely.

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5.

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Nika has been a whore too long to believe in love. She believes in money, but that's not why the assassin named 47 is keeping her alive.

What Nika the whore really believes in is lust. What Nika the whore survives – _used to survive_ on was lust. She used to think that _that _was why she was still alive – her body as the goddamn answer to everything. Used to think he kept her around because he liked looking at her – the way her long legs moved through her wisps of silk dresses; the way she'd walk around sleek and archly naked after her showers; the way she'd let him look at her and then smirked like she liked it.

And - what? Yes, of course she liked it. He had a gun and if there's something Nika knows – if there's _one thing_ a whore knows, it's how to survive purely on body language and male attention. But lately, Nika is starting to think that lust might not be the reason why there isn't a bullet through her forehead. Lately, there is a list building up in her head, a countdown drumming, and no matter how she might like to pretend otherwise, it isn't adding up.

One: The stranger named 47 gave her a vineyard. Nobody gives a whore a vineyard. Nobody gives a whore _anything_ – not a fuck, unless it's literal.

Two: The man named 47 has never touched her. And this is what really scares Nika, because what was she but her body? What is Nika, but her tits and pussy and curves of her hips? Once, when they time when they were on the run and it was just him and her and everyone else's guns, she had persuaded herself that he was it, finally – the one man in the world who_ didn't_ want anything from her, who _didn't _want her. And even though the rejection had stung a little, it was alright because he wanted nothing, nothing beside using her as cover, and she was_ free_; his near-aggressive indifference had let just let her _be..._ but now that has all gone to hell, hasn't it, because –

Three: The killer still visits.

Like right now, the man himself sitting on the edge of her bed and watching dawn break beyond her open balcony.

Nika has had plenty of practice from Bellicroft, and knows how to keep her breathing deep and even, and watch a man through shuttered lashes. It has been nearly six weeks since his last visit - _not_ that she has been counting, fuck you very much - but he looks the same every time: his perfect suit, his shaven head, the dark flash of his eyes always moving, moving, watching. In the rising light, the shadows cut sharp planes across his profile, and Nika's chest is squeezing painfully, breathlessly, because her killer is beautiful, and he is unreal, and life this good never, never lasts and he must be here to kill her at last.

"Having fun?"

Somehow, without looking, he knows she is awake. Nika sits up and stretches carefully, making sure to arch her back just so, so that her small breasts are thrust forward and the curve of her waist is accentuated.

She smirks when 47's eyes follow her movement predictably, and tries to pretend she isn't trembling. "I don't know. Are you?"

47's eyes snap up. "I'm not here for that," he says flatly, harsh as stranger – and suddenly, that's what does it.

After weeks of waiting blindly, always straining at peripheral sight for a flash of telltale black; after weeks of being stuck in some goddamn backcountry farmland and being terrified of ruining it all; after weeks of stripping butt-naked whenever he comes and practically begging to be fucked; after weeks of wondering if he cares, whether this is it, his last visit, her last day – this is what finally snaps Nika. Because if the cold bastard wasn't here for _this,_ then what the _fuck else did she have to offer?_

Nika snaps.

"Well fuck you!" someone is screaming, and it takes a second for Nika to realize that it's her, and she's standing on the bed, and she is still afraid, but more importantly, she is _pissed off._ "Then what the fuck are you here for? _WHAT_? You come in and out of here like you own me. You think I don't _know_ that? You think I'll _forget_? _Fuck you!_"

"Nika – "

"No, _shut up! _You shut up! You're the coldest bastard I've ever met. _What do you want from me_? You don't –"

This time, the sound of a gun cocking cuts her off.

Nika looks at the gun in the assassin's hand. She looks at him. Then she sits, pulls the sheets over her shoulders, and closes her eyes.

"I still haven't found a reason for you not to kill me yet," she says, unsteadily. It's a lie, but the vineyard has never really been hers.

There is a long silence where all Nika can think of is the stupidity of this; and all she can hear is her heart, like in the dream – thundering, thundering.

Then, the bed dips. There is the barest warmth on her cheek – his breath. There is a hard chill pressed against her forehead – the muzzle of his gun.

Then, a lifetime later, there is the cold weight of something unmistakable in her hands.

Nika opens her eyes and looks down at the gun on her lap.

47 is watching her, two breaths away and cutting in intensity.

"This is how we first met," he says, quietly, as if he hadn't just contemplated shooting her, and his thumb is brushing over the dragon on her cheekbone again. She isn't sure if he's talking to just her.

"Are you going to kill me?" Nika whispers unthinkingly. Then, a sob half-caught, "You bastard. Say you'll never do that again."

"I've always kept you alive," he says distantly, but there is an undertone in his voice that sounds like resignation, like anger.

Nika doesn't care. There is a panic still rising in her, and what she wants is him to –

"_Promise me_." And she catches his hand and presses it against her cheek. Against her tattoo.

The strange thing is that she knows that he knows exactly what she is doing, even if she doesn't fully understand it. But still, 47 closes his eyes. He leans in like a man hypnotized, and breathes her in, exhales. And it happens under a second, but the shock judders a memory: that last train ride together, that dark and vulnerable thing she'd glimpsed just before he left her. The same hungry weakness here, his hand hot and pressed hard against her cheek, as if he has remembered for a split-second how to be human again, as if –

Then the assassin opens his eyes, and he is impassive and indifferent as ever.

"You don't have to be afraid of me," he says. "If you don't get in my way."

He is abrupt when he pulls his hand away. Like tenderness turned inside out, Nika thinks dizzily. But she supposes that from him, that was protection as good as any other.

She stays silent as 47 gets up and makes his way to the door. He is ignoring her, and his movements are curt, and Nika knows better than to think he'll be staying. But at the edge of the doorway, he pauses.

"One more thing." He waits till he's sure she's listening. "Acting like I own you – is getting in my way. If I want a real whore, I'll find one. Remember that."

She is still staring when he leaves. So it is only a while later, when Nika the woman automatically reaches to get throw something at where that arrogant sonofabitch's head was, that she realizes he has left his gun with her.


End file.
